


heaven is a place on earth and specifically under gladio's big fcukgin arm

by dicaeopolis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, Gen, M/M, writing prompto's internal thought processes is kind of like watching a cat with the zoomies at 2am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 08:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16133717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicaeopolis/pseuds/dicaeopolis
Summary: Prompto's one hell of a cuddle bug; Gladio doesn't mind at all.





	heaven is a place on earth and specifically under gladio's big fcukgin arm

**Author's Note:**

> can be read shippy or gen honestly i just love these boys. my boss shaved our organization's initials into his chest hair once and tbh? gladiocore

Okay, look, it's - it's not Prompto's fault, alright. It's just that, well, Noct is his best friend but Prompto is pretty sure the guy runs at a temperature so low he's scientifically dead, and it's a rare day when Ignis doesn't either shrug off Prompto's touches or stiffly tolerate them with dry and pointed looks until Prompto slumps off somewhere sulking, and there are really only three people that Prompto interacts with ever so his options are kind of limited. And nights in the desert get _cold_. And Prompto likes snuggling. And Gladio is, like, _huge_. Like, he's pretty sure Gladio is as wide as himself twice over.

"What the fuck are you doing," Gladio says, without any real bite in it. Prompto rolls off of where he's been trying to align himself with one side of Gladio's shoulders and then the other to see if it's true, feeling vaguely embarrassed.

"Nothin'."

Gladio grunts amiably. "Whatever."

Gladio is flopped facedown on his bedroll, close enough to the campfire for warmth - they're forgoing the tent tonight, since the entirety of the past few days have been spent in rain and everyone misses the stars and that tiny canvas space _stinks_. Ignis had cooked dinner, Noctis had been strongarmed into doing the dishes, and as soon as Gladio had settled in Prompto had made a beeline for cuddling up next to him. He's like a big muscly bear. A bear who has enough chest fur that he could probably shave initials into it or something. A bear who doesn't mind that Prompto likes to climb him like a jungle gym sometimes. Often. Prompto's similes are really getting out of hand. Instead of thinking up more of them, he just plops his head onto Gladio's considerable deltoid and sighs in happiness.

"What?" says Gladio.

_"Nothing."_

"Then quit _squirming."_

The next thing Prompto knows, there's a huge, beefy, tattooed arm slung over his waist. The arm probably weighs more than he does. Which, fantastic. This close, Gladio smells something powerful, his deodorant feebly attempting to cover the stink of battle and sweat and B.O. and campfire smoke. What deodorant even is that? Axe? Prompto uses Axe. It doesn't smell like Axe. Old Spice? It smells like what Axe tries to be, maybe. Like, manly and musky and feebly attempting to cover the stink of battle and sweat and B.O. and campfire smoke. Prompto is so okay with this.

Across the campfire, Noctis is mouthing something at him. Prompto frowns at him. Prompto cannot read lips. Noctis knows this and continues to try and mouth words at him all the time to rub it in. Noctis is a horrible friend.

Noctis is miming picking up a glass. Noctis is pouring the glass down his throat. His throat is even glugging with mock swallows. Why does Noctis never put that much effort into things like training sessions. Ignis is smirking down at his book, and Prompto's pretty sure he hasn't actually turned a page in ten minutes.

"You're the only one here I like," Prompto says to the arm.

"Thanks," says Gladio. "Go to sleep."

Prompto gives Noctis the middle finger and snuggles in closer.


End file.
